


don’t you know that we’re a family?

by scarlettroses



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Canon Era, Established Relationship, M/M, a lil violent, no happy endings here folks, they kinda try to beat each other up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/pseuds/scarlettroses
Summary: (from my tumblr)while davey was bothering jack in medda’s theatre, brooklyn was joining the strike.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 5
Kudos: 59





	don’t you know that we’re a family?

**Author's Note:**

> i always forget to cross-post my fics from tumblr on here! this is a little sprace piece that i wrote in february for a request :)

It feels strange, walking through Manhattan.

Spot doesn’t come here often. He mostly sticks to his own territory, occasionally sending a kid over if there’s a message he needs to relay. It’s rare that he himself ever actually crosses the bridge.

He’s here on a mission, walking as fast as he can down crowded sidewalks and trying to go unnoticed. He’s not sure what he’s so scared of— sure, he’s not supposed to be here, he’s got his own turf. But who on earth is gonna tell him to leave? Not even Jack Kelly would have the balls to kick Spot out of his borough.

Speaking of Jack… an apology is owed and Spot is here to deliver it. Brooklyn should have come to this morning’s strike— he was being stupid and overthinking it when he decided to pull back and not go. They should have had Manhattan’s back, and Spot, at the very least, has the sense to apologize for it.

From what he’s heard so far, tons of kids got hurt and at least one was even arrested— and Spot’s heard some downright _horrible_ things about the place Manhattan kids go when that happens. There’s a jail for kids in Brooklyn, sure, but it’s not nearly as bad as the horror stories he’s heard from this side of the river. He feels like absolute shit, because all this surely could’ve been prevented if he and the other boroughs had jumped in to help.

Additionally, it’s not only Jack he needs to apologize to— there’s someone else he needs to find. Race is definitely beyond angry. It’s understandable, of course, but it stings nonetheless. Race is one of the only people in the world whose opinion Spot gives a shit about, and it sucks being on his bad side.

It’s been almost half a year since they said “I love you” for the first time. They’d sworn they’d always watch out for each other. Spot is quite sure he’s fucked that up royally, and as much as he’s really hoping he’s not about to get broken up with, he certainly wouldn’t blame Race if he dumped him.

It’s getting late— between getting word of what happened and then hiking all the way over here, it’s staring to get dark out. When he finally arrives, he has to gather himself for a moment before knocking— he’s oddly nervous.

He doesn’t recognize the kid who answers. Actually… wait, maybe he does. Race has talked about him before— tall and ginger with an uneven spattering of freckles, always wears his hat backwards— this has to be Albert.

He’s never quite felt so judged as when Albert looks him up and down, with a curl to his upper lip like he’s trying and failing not to give a dirty look.

“You from Brooklyn?” he finally asks, his voice dripping with annoyance. “You’re a little late, the strike was this morning.”

Spot swallows thickly and struggles to figure out exactly how to respond to that.

“I know,” he states, trying to at least maintain his usual air of confidence. “Is Jack here? I need to talk to him… about that.”

Albert stares at Spot with that same glare for a moment. There’s a reason he must have been left in charge of the door— he’s oddly intimidating, able to make you feel like you’re two feet tall with just a judgemental look.

“No.”

Spot sort of expects him to elaborate, but all he’s left with is that cold, unnerving stare.

“Okay, well, where is he? Or— fuck it, is Racetrack here? I need to talk to him too.”

Albert quirks an eyebrow.

“You’re Spot Conlon,” he states, like he’s just realizing it, but also like he’s not remotely impressed. “I’m not sure Race is too keen to see you right now. He’s not happy with you.”

Spot groans. He knew Race would be pissed, but now that he’s hearing it for real, it hurts even more.

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “That’s why I walked my ass all the way to Manhattan to apologize— if he’ll see me, that is.”

Albert quirks an eyebrow, the most expression he’s showed in this whole conversation.

“Apologize?” he asks, almost like it’s funny to him. “By all means, go ahead and try. I wanna see this go down.” He turns around and shouts into the building. “Ay, Racer! Someone’s at the door for you!”

There’s a bit of a commotion inside, a few kids asking if it’s a lady friend or something, and Albert eventually turns back around to face Spot.

“Good luck,” he chuckles, before pushing the door the rest of the way open and walking away.

There’s Race, approaching the door with a curious kind of look on his face, though it falls into _completely and totally pissed the fuck off_ as soon as he lays eyes on Spot.

“ _You_ … What are you _doing_ here!?” he practically growls, before suddenly charging forwards at full speed. “You no-good, lying, cowardly piece of _shit_! I’ll kill you!”

Before Spot can even try to react, Race decks him in the face with a surprising amount of force— his lanky arms can pack a ridiculously good punch.

So… not quite the reaction Spot was hoping for.

“Jesus, what the hell!?” He clutches his cheek, not sure what to do next— Race is probably the only person in the world who could punch him and not get pummelled into the ground for it. “Would you at least hear me out first?”

Race is clearly fuming, and he just swings his arm back and punches Spot again. In an attempt to at least defend himself, Spot tries to grab Race’s arms and hold him still, but it escalates into wrestling each other to the ground, while Race tries to go in for another hit.

“You have some _goddamn_ nerve showing up here!” snaps Race, who currently has the upper hand simply because although Spot is stronger, he’s also terrified to hurt him. Race throws another punch and Spot just barely dodges it. “You think you can show your face in Manhattan after the shit you pulled today!? What the hell was goin’ through your thick head!?”

Spot manages to catch one of Race’s fists and hold it still, breathless from the adrenaline rush of whatever the hell is going on here.

“I’m _sorry_ , Race,” he pants. “If you’d just listen, we could—”

“Sorry doesn’t mean _shit_ , you asshole!” Race screams, using his free hand to hit Spot again, though this one has a little less force behind it. “Sorry don’t fix _none_ of what happened today, and it’s all because you’re a selfish, rotten bastard!”

“I’m _selfish_!?” yells Spot. He’s making a genuine effort not to lose his temper, but it’s tricky when he’s quite literally being attacked. “What!? I was thinkin’ about all the kids that coulda been hurt! I’m not the one that rushed into a fight I couldn’t handle!”

“Oh, I’ll _show_ you a fight I can handle!” roars Race, before someone finally comes running from inside to grab him by the waist and pull him off of Spot. “Hey! What the fuck!? Let me at him!”

He’s pulled back by two other newsies, kicking and struggling all the while, and Spot manages to push himself to his feet. His face is throbbing and he can taste blood in his mouth— Race is a surprisingly good fighter. In any other instance he’d be rather proud.

There’s a crowd of kids in the doorway, watching in either total shock or dying with laughter. Spot Conlon very rarely feels embarrassed, but the dozens of pairs of eyes on him are unnerving to say the least.

“Stop it, Race,” grumbles one of the guys who’d hauled him to his feet, some kid with glasses that Spot sort of recognizes. “Jesus— ain’t us newsies supposed to be a family?”

“Oh please,” snaps Race, with a bitter laugh. “He _has_ a family, they’re in _Brooklyn_ and they’re too high and mighty to come help us out! We ain’t good enough for ‘em.”

Spot spits blood onto the pavement and widens his stance a little, trying to stay in control. He knows he looks intimidating when the glasses guy gulps and his eyes widen a little.

“You know that ain’t true,” says Spot, hoping the power of a calm, but loud voice will make it look like he’s not freaking out. He takes a step closer to Race, who’s stopped kicking and screaming but still looks enraged. Spot takes a deep breath. “Ain’t nothin’ what makes one borough better than another, and we oughta have each other’s backs. I fucked up. I shoulda sent some fellas to join the strike today, and I shoulda been here myself. I’m sorry. I’m man enough to say it, I did the wrong thing.”

Race’s angry expression twitches. He’s clenching his jaw and staring Spot down with fire in his eyes, but his gaze has softened just a little. Everyone else has gone silent— you could hear a pin drop.

If they don’t fix things between their boroughs right now, there’s almost no hope of another strike attempt. If Race accepts Spot’s apology, it certainly doesn’t mean things are okay between them personally, but at least the newsies won’t be going to war around them.

“You should be,” Race finally says, and he jerks his arms to make the fellas on either side of him let go. They comply, and Spot realizes that Race must be in charge in Jack’s absence— wherever he is— because everyone seems to just be waiting for his next move. He looks around at the boys behind him and then sighs, spits in his hand, and extends it toward Spot. “Manhattan accepts your apology, if you swear you’ll be behind us next time. This ain’t over.”

A blanket of relief washes over Spot as he returns the handshake, and there’s an awkward, quiet round of applause from a few of the boys. Before letting go, he steps a little closer to Race, narrowing the space between them.

“Can we talk? …Alone?”

Race hesitates, stares at Spot for a moment, and then shakes his head, taking an exasperated deep breath. He drops their hands.

“No. Go home, Spot.”

Spot opens his mouth, but then closes it and pauses. He can’t just walk away from here, knowing they’re not on good terms. What if Race decides never to come sell in Brooklyn again?

“Racer…” he whispers, his eyes darting around the dozen or so newsies still watching them. “ _Please_. Come on.”

Race’s cold expression cracks for just a moment, almost in pity, but he collects himself quickly.

“I’m busy,” he simply says. “I got lots of kids hurt from today what need helpin’. I ain’t wasting my time with you.”

Spot feels his heart break a little at the implication that he’s a waste of time, but he just nods and rubs a hand over his face to hide the tears that have sprung to his eyes.

“Yeah. Okay. That… that makes sense.” He slowly starts to walk away as he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. “Maybe another time. Um… I’ll see you at Sheepshead tomorrow?”

Race sighs.

“No.” He offers a tight smile, like he’s trying to at least keep things friendly. “I think I’ll be stickin’ to my own borough for a while.”

Spot feels absolutely crushed, but he has to keep it together, so he at least tries to smile back. This can’t be happening. Loving Race is the only thing he’s truly certain about— this can’t be the end of them.

“Okay… I get it. I’ll, um, I’ll be around, y’know? If you ever feel like… coming by. If you want.”

Spot can’t quite convince himself to walk away, so Race eventually just huffs and shoots a stern look to any of the other newsies that haven’t already gone back inside. Once the door closes behind the last of them, he takes a little step closer to Spot.

“Don’t make this harder than he needs to be.” His voice is incredibly soft and Spot is so desperate for his affection that it hurts a little. “Just leave. I’ll see you eventually, but not today, and not anytime soon. _Go home_.”

There’s nothing Spot can do but nod and start to walk away. This is exactly what he’d been scared of on his way here.

“I love you,” he offers, one last attempt at begging for forgiveness.

Race freezes. His face falls, and he seems to internally debate whether or not he’s going to say it back for what feels like forever. Ultimately, he just turns around and walks back inside without a word.

If anyone asks, Spot won’t admit it, but he cries for the whole walk home.

**Author's Note:**

> ahahahaha no happy endings around these parts, folks ;)
> 
> hope u enjoyed!


End file.
